Clearing his throat, he took a safe step away from her, trying to distance himself from the scent of her, the heat of her.
It was hard, living in such close proximity, never touching. Especially while sharing the intimacy of raising a child and running a ranch. The situation was explosive, like a powder keg with a short fuse.
The fuse caught fire several days later, in a manner neither of them could have predicted.
Heather was seated at Sloan’s desk, engaged in reviewing the past year’s accounts, when she heard the sounds of galloping hoofbeats accompanied by a shout coming from behind the house. Catching up a rifle as a precaution, she went out on the back porch.
At the same moment Rusty came running from the corral, also carrying a rifle; as usual Sloan had left the cowboy behind to provide protection for his daughter.
Skidding to a halt, the rider never dismounted from his winded horse, but tipped his hat to her hurriedly and identified himself as one of Jake McCord’s ranch hands. “I’m on my way to fetch Doc Farley in town, ma’am. Seems Miss Caitlin’s time is near. Jake asked if you would come. He’s a mite worried about the missus, since she’s early.”
“Of course,” Heather replied immediately, “I’ll come at once.”
Nodding, the rider whirled his mount and galloped away.
“I’ll hitch up the buggy,” Rusty said quickly. “But I’d best drive you to Jake’s place, Miz McCord. Looks like it means to storm.”
Heather scanned the horizon, torn between her duty to Janna and concern for her dearest friend. The sky over the foothills was ominously dark, portending a thunderstorm, while a chill wind blew from the west.
“Perhaps it would be better if I drove myself and you stayed here to look after Janna till Sloan returns from the range. I would rather not expose her to the inclement weather unnecessarily.”
The cowhand nodded. “Reckon that would be best.”
Heather was already turning back to the house. “I’ll get Janna’s supper ready if you’ll bring the buggy around.”
She went inside and quickly mashed some potatoes she’d boiled earlier and scrambled an egg. After donning her coat and bonnet, she paused long enough to write Sloan a note, saying she meant to attend Caitlin’s lying-in and would be back as soon as she could.
Moments later, she was back and stowing the rifle in the buggy. As Rusty helped her into the driver’s seat, she gave him some last-minute instructions.
“Janna is upstairs napping and should remain asleep for another hour or so. When she wakes, she can have the supper I left on the table. If she’s … wet, you will have to change her napkin. There are clean ones in the bureau beside her cradle. They fit like … underdrawers. Try to fashion a replacement like the one she’s wearing.” Heather felt herself blushing a little at such plain speaking, but Rusty nodded solemnly, as if he’d been entrusted with the most sacred of tasks. “Sloan will take care of the rest when he gets home.”
Slapping the reins against the horse’s rump then, Heather drove down the drive. She shivered as a cold gust of wind buffeted her. It was nearly the end of April, and the magnificent land had only just begun to come alive with hints of green—shoots of grass pushing their way up through the brown earth, buds sprouting along barren tree limbs—but winter still seemed inclined to linger on.
She was glad she was driving in daylight, and gladder still that she remembered the way. She’d only been to Caitlin’s home once since her arrival in Colorado, and the rutted road that wound through the foothills was not well-marked.
She accomplished the journey without mishap, however, and surrendered the buggy to one of the hands in the yard.
The ranch house was nearly brand-new—a handsome timber-frame, one-story dwelling that boasted the modern conveniences of a central furnace and hot running water. Jake had refused to live permanently in the house Caitlin’s father had built—the man who had unjustly branded him an outlaw and later murdered his sister-in-law, Sloan’s Indian wife.
No one greeted Heather when she entered the kitchen, so she followed the sounds, making her own way to the master bedchamber toward the rear of the house.
Caitlin’s time was indeed near, Heather realized, hearing a cry of pain. Her labor had begun, while her pale face was soaked in perspiration. It was no wonder. The room was like an oven, since the fire had been stoked to a roaring blaze. At the same time Jake was creating his own tempest as he frantically paced the floor.
Heather took one look at him and banished him from the bedchamber.
“I promise you, Caitlin will be fine,” Heather assured him. “I’ll look after her until the doctor arrives.”
“What if he doesn’t come in time?”
“Then we’ll see your new son or daughter into the world ourselves. I’ve a little experience at these things. I was present at the birth of your first child—didn’t Caitlin tell you?” Heather wasn’t at all as confident as she let on, but Jake desperately seemed to need reassurance.
When he was gone, she removed her coat and cracked a window, then drew a chair beside her friend’s bed.
Caitlin smiled wanly. “I’m glad you’re here,” she murmured weakly as Heather took her hand. “Jake was driving me to distraction. I told him I was warm enough, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Hush, dearest. Save your strength for the baby.”
Smoothing Caitlin’s raven hair back from her forehead, Heather bathed her face with cool water—a process that was repeated countless times during the following hours. Night had fallen before the doctor finally arrived, and several more hours of painful labor passed before a squalling baby girl was delivered into the world. The child seemed in perfect health, although a bit premature.
Watching the miracle of birth, Heather found herself blinking back tears of joy. She nearly cried again when she had the honor of placing the newborn in her papa’s arms for the first time.
Jake’s expression was one of stunned wonder as he gazed down at the tiny, squirming scrap of humanity.
“She’s beautiful,” he whispered, staring with awe at the red puckered flesh and thatch of raven hair.
Heather couldn’t help but smile. “She is, indeed. Perhaps you should tell your wife so.”
Cautiously, as if his new daughter might break, Jake knelt beside the bed and gazed into Caitlin’s eyes. His look was nakedly intimate, declaring more explicitly than words the love he bore for her and their new child.
Heather had to turn away from the disturbingly private moment. Hoping her envy wouldn’t show, she wondered wistfully if she would ever know the joy of bearing a child … Sloan’s child. It didn’t seem likely, since he continued to keep his distance.
Both mother and child were sleeping soundly when Heather finally took her leave at half past midnight. Jake, keeping watch over them, was too preoccupied to offer her an escort home, and Heather didn’t think of it till she was a half mile down the road. The night seemed ominously dark as well as damp and frigid, but she needed to get back to Janna and thus decided against turning around—a decision she regretted when it began to sleet.
Visibility grew worse the longer she drove, and so did the wind. Blinding gusts drove icy needles into her face. Then just as suddenly as the storm hit, the world quieted, and the sleet turned to snow, dusting the road with eerie white. In only moments the landmarks Heather had committed to memory disappeared.
Shivering with cold, she closed her frozen fingers stiffly around the reins and drew the horse to a halt, fearing that she was lost. After long moments of indecision, she clambered down from the buggy and took the horse by the bridle, meaning to lead it home. At least by walking she could see the outline of the road.
Determinedly she hunched her shoulders and trudged forward through the dark night, fighting the bitter cold as well as alarm. Her face was numb, and she could no longer feel her fingers within her gloves or her feet inside her half-boots. Occasionally a gust of wind blew stinging, biting flakes right through her.
> Once, the horse whinnied and began to resist her, pulling back as if he might bolt. Heather managed to regain control and urged him to the left, where the road seemed to fork.
Sometime later, however, she realized she must have made the wrong choice. She halted in her tracks, fighting the panic that gripped her throat. Every landmark looked unfamiliar, while walls of rock rose on either side of the narrowing trail. She had led them into a canyon.
Swallowing fear, she struggled to back the horse and turn the buggy around—and then gasped as an apparition appeared out of the black night.
The horseman came riding toward her, shrouded in white. When she recognized Sloan, her relief was so profound, Heather nearly sank to her knees.
He gave her no word of greeting as he dismounted, but treated her to total silence. Trembling, she stood to one side as he unharnessed her horse from the buggy and slapped its rump. It took off at a gallop.
In the dark, she couldn’t make out Sloan’s expression, but his grip on her arm was painful as he led her to his mount. She realized then why he hadn’t said a word. He was furious with her.
Sloan tossed her up on his horse and swung up behind her. Heather was grateful when his arms came around her shivering form.
“How did you m-manage to find me?” she asked weakly, her teeth chattering.
She wasn’t certain he would answer. “Pure luck,” he gritted out. “Your tracks had nearly disappeared. A few minutes more and I wouldn’t have been able to see them.”
“I l-lost my way.”
“You should have given the horse his head. He would have found the way home.”
“I didn’t t-think of t-that.”
“No, that’s the trouble, duchess. You didn’t think at all.” His tone was savage.
“I d-didn’t know it would sn-snow in late April!”
“Hell, it snows in the Rockies in June.”
Sloan bit back any further comment, not trusting himself to speak as he urged the bay through the deepening snow. Brutally he clamped down on the emotion he refused to recognize as protectiveness. He didn’t want to examine any of his emotions too closely. What he wanted was to punish Heather for scaring him so. His relief at finding her unhurt was no compensation for the stark terror she had put him through.
When at last they reached the house, Sloan set her down none too gently. “Get inside and get warm. I’ll see to the horse.”
Heather could barely move, she was so cold, but she forced herself to climb the back porch. Rusty was waiting for her inside, a worried frown on his weathered face.
Gently, yet fussy as a mother hen, the cowboy helped her remove her wet coat and bonnet and gloves and led her to the stove. Solicitously, he poured her a steaming mug of coffee, but her frozen fingers couldn’t bear the heat. She took a sip and gave it back. Instead she held her icy hands out to the stove and stood there trembling as painful feeling began to return to her numb limbs.
She hadn’t moved when Sloan came in a moment later. He took one look at his wife, then nodded to his hired hand.
“Thanks, Rusty, I’ll handle things now. You can go back to bed.”
The silence when he was gone was terrible. Left alone with Sloan, she risked a glance at him. He was watching her, his blue eyes icy and lethal.
“I … I’m s-sorry,” she murmured.
His jaw hardened. “Sorry isn’t good enough, duchess. What the hell were you thinking? You could have died out there.”
She shuddered and swayed weakly. His hands were there—rough, impersonal, catching her.
“C-Caitlin needed me,” she replied, tears crowding her throat like jagged rocks.
“So did Janna! You left her alone with no one but a cowhand to care for her.”
“Would you r-rather I’d exposed her to the snowstorm?”
Sloan ground his teeth. Janna’s welfare wasn’t what really worried him—Rusty had seen to her well enough. It was Heather who had scared the hell out of him. He had feared for her life.
He was furious that she should endanger herself that way. He couldn’t forgive her either for the anguished memories she’d aroused, the helpless, suffocating feeling of panic that had risen like bile in his throat. She might have died and he would have been helpless to prevent it. Just like Doe.
His fear took the form of anger; the rise of his protective instincts made him even angrier.
His eyes were a hard, glittering smoke. “I would rather,” he ground out, “you have the sense not to go out alone in a snowstorm. I warned you about the dangers here. Goddammit, do I have to play nursemaid to you every minute of the day?”
The words erupted between them with soft violence.
Despite her shudders, Heather stiffened, her spine going rigid. Backhanding the tears from her cheeks, she turned her face away. She didn’t want him to see her cry.
“No,” she managed hoarsely, “you are not required to play nursemaid.”
Forcing her feet to move, she retrieved her coat from the wall peg. When she went to the door, Sloan gave a start.
“Dammit, where do you think you’re going?”
“Somewhere where I’m wanted—where I’m n-not considered a th-threat to your daughter…”
Behind her, Sloan cursed. Moving swiftly, he put a hand against the door and shoved it shut. Heather struggled to open it again, but he was too strong for her, and she was too weak with fatigue and cold.
“Dammit, duchess, don’t be a fool. You can’t go back out there. You’ll freeze to death.”
“What do you care?”
Her voice caught on a sob. She was shaking; her head was bowed.
He steeled himself against her tears. At her back, his hands rose to her shoulders, gripping tightly.
She flinched. “Damn you, leave me be!”
She tried to draw away, but he forced her to turn around. The tears streamed down her face, yet she refused to look at him.
Those tears kicked him square and hard in the chest. Sloan inhaled a sharp breath, surveying her beautiful face, vainly trying to ignore the heat that surged through him. He tightened his grasp and found himself bringing her closer, imprisoning her. He wanted to erase those tears. He wanted to shelter her, to hold her, to warm her with his body, his lips … even as he wanted to punish her.
With another vivid curse, he brought his mouth down hard on hers.
Chapter 9
Heat leapt between them, shocking and primal. Relief, anger, need, all came pouring out of Sloan, into his kiss. His temper was frayed from the strain of weeks of wanting her, from the emotions that fought and tangled inside him… fear and passion and pent-up desire.
He felt Heather attempt to pull away as his mouth took hers fiercely. It triggered in him a primal, violent response to subdue and conquer. He deepened his kiss, refusing to release her—until she made a soft, despairing sound that broke through his blind haze of lust and anger and tore at his heart.
Lifting his head, Sloan took a deep breath, fighting the savage heat of his body. It was like a knife in him to see those tears on her face.
“Don’t,” he whispered, his voice low and rough. “Don’t cry.”
Something twisted painfully in his chest and made him reach out to touch her wet cheek. She turned her face away, her body racked by shuddering.
Remorse squeezed his heart like a fist; her vulnerability pierced him as nothing else could.
His anger turning to tenderness against his will, Sloan slid his arms around her and gathered her into him, this time gently, wrapping her carefully in his strength. She leaned weakly against him and sobbed quietly against his shoulder.
The last of his defenses crumbled. She was soft and trembling against him; her tears seemed to soak through his shirt and into his heart.
He didn’t want to let her go. He wanted, he realized with dismay, to hold her and touch her, to keep her close and protect her. He wanted to make love to her.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
Hearing the roug
h contrition in his voice, Heather fought to hold back a ragged sob. The hand that stroked her back and smoothed her gown along the curve of her bottom was soothing, gentle. She couldn’t understand Sloan’s sudden compassion, yet she needed whatever comfort she could find.
Drawing back, she looked up into his eyes. Her tears arrested at his expression—three parts concern and one of tenderness.
The night trembled around them as Sloan brought his hands up to cradle her tearstained face. He pressed the lightest of kisses on her lips, then bent and lifted her into his arms.
Wordlessly he carried her from the kitchen and up the stairs to her bedchamber. The room was dark but warmed by the steady heat of the woodstove. Sloan set her on her feet and lit a lamp. In the sudden pale glow, Heather shivered.
Watching her, Sloan hesitated. Desire knifed through him, sharp and insistent; his body was hard with need. Yet seeing her standing there, looking so proud and vulnerable, gave him pause. She had wrapped her arms around herself, protecting herself from him. Her eyes were wary.
He knew she wouldn’t come willingly to him. He’d seen to that. He had pushed her away at every opportunity. He had made her cry. Her very gentleness had goaded him to hurt her. Now he was filled with the desire to offer solace, the need to comfort, as well as other primal feelings more basic and male. Still, he intended to give her the choice.
“Do you want me to leave?”
The air between them trembled, raw with tension.
“No,” Heather whispered.
His gaze heated to molten pewter. His hand came up to touch her, because he could no longer bear a moment of not touching her. The hell with waiting. He wanted her, wanted to lose himself in her body, the taste of her, the smell of her, the feel of her.
The combs that held her heavy hair were the first casualty. Then Sloan bent his head, tangling his hands in her silver tresses and holding her mouth still for his kiss. It seemed foolish that a simple touch could give birth to intense need, intense hunger, yet just this small contact made him want her more.
Her quivering seemed to echo in him, sending tremors that shivered across his own skin. It brought him back to reality just a little.
The Heart Breaker Page 14
